Harald found himself sitting alone in an empty Whiterun, near the statue of Talos—where Heimskr would usually bellow his endless sermons about the god. But now, there was no voice ringing through the stone streets, no townsfolk moving about, and no guards patrolling the walls. It was silent—eerily so.
Above him, the Gildergreen stretched toward the sky, its massive branches thick with life. The sacred tree, once withered and dying, now stood in full bloom, thanks to his aid in retrieving the Eldergleam sap for Danica. Its golden leaves shimmered in the strange, muted light, casting long, soft shadows across the empty city.
He was dreaming.
Was this Hermaeus Mora's doing again? Another attempt to manipulate him? The Daedric Prince of Fate had already begun whispering into this world—was this another one of his games?
Harald exhaled slowly, his mind circling the events of the past few days. He had taken Greyholt; Maise was free now. His promise to Willem had been fulfilled.
He could go back now.
Back to his homestead.
Yet he knew it wasn't that simple. His rampage down the Blue Fork had left countless Ironborn dead. He had slain two Greyjoys.
There would be consequences.
Especially for Jonnel, whose brother was still held hostage in Fairmarket. Haldon Greyjoy would demand blood for the deaths of his sons. And the blame, Harald knew, would fall upon the Blackwoods. His sons had died on Blackwood lands, after all.
"Pathetic."
A voice rang out, sharp and dripping with contempt.
His own voice.
Harald turned sharply, his hand instinctively moving toward a weapon that wasn't there. His eyes widened as he beheld the statue of Talos, now changed. No longer did it depict the warrior-king.
Now, it was a statue of himself.
Fierce. Powerful. A blade drawn high, as though caught in the moment of victory.
"Pathetic," the voice repeated.
"What happened to the man who held dreams of conquest with fire in his heart and ambition in his veins? The man who declared he would sit upon the Ruby Throne? The man who dreamed of becoming Tiber Septim reborn?"
Harald clenched his jaw as memories flooded back.
It was true. When he first woke up in Nirn, he had wanted all that. When he found out he was Dragonborn, he made it his mission. He had been naïve then.
"What happened to you?"
"Where is the man who was meant to carve his name into history?"
Harald closed his eyes. He didn't answer.
Because deep down, he didn't know anymore.
Harald exhaled slowly, staring at the statue—at himself.
"I abandoned those ambitions long ago," he said, his voice quiet but firm.
The statue's golden eyes burned brighter. He knew what it represented: his dragon soul, the fire deep within him. It sneered in response.
"Because of one defeat? Because you lost some friends?" it snarled, spitting out the word friends in contempt.
Harald's fists clenched. His jaw tightened.
"Pathetic," the statue continued, its tone thick with disdain. "You fought Alduin. You defied the will of a god. You wielded power beyond mortal comprehension—power that could bend the very world to your will. And yet… look at you now."
Harald remained silent.
The statue's words slithered into his mind, igniting something buried deep.
"This world should be under your heel by now. They should be hailing you as their master—kneeling before you, worshiping you for the god you are."
"You have no choice," the voice pressed on. "Your conscience won't let you abandon these people. That is who you are."
"I cannot go back," he whispered.
That was the quiet part. The truth he had been trying to deny. Leobald was right: the moment he saved Riverwood, the life he had lived here was over. He was being pushed to become what he needed to be.
The statue grinned—a cruel, knowing smile.
"Then stop pretending. Seize your fate. Take what is yours. Rule, as you were meant to—as all dov are meant to do."
The world around him trembled. The sky above cracked. The golden leaves of the Gildergreen scattered into the wind like embers caught in a storm.
And then—
Harald jolted awake.
=====
Harald walked out of the chamber he had been using in Greyholt, his mind still heavy with the remnants of the dream. The air was thick with the scent of blood and burned flesh, remnants of the slaughter he had wrought upon the Ironborn. Many of the castle's servants and freed thralls had survived, though not all.
But no Ironborn had lived.
He had made sure of that.
As he strode through the halls of the keep, his thoughts circled back to the vision. He knew what it was—a conversation with himself, a part of him trying to break free of the illusion of choice. There was no returning to his quiet homestead. There was only going forward. And that path ended with these lands freed from Ironborn rule.
There was also the fact that one of the Daedric Princes had discovered this world, and that meant the others would soon follow. It was his fault—he could not hide away.
Harald exhaled sharply, pushing the thoughts aside. First, he needed to find Leobald.
As he made his way through the keep, he spotted Jonnel standing in the hallway, deep in thought. The younger Blackwood turned as he saw Harald approach, relief crossing his face.
"When are we leaving for Fairmarket, Harald?" Jonnel asked, his voice carrying a note of urgency. "I fear news of Greyholt's fall will spread fast. Haldon might…"
Harald placed a firm hand on Jonnel's shoulder, steadying him.
"We will leave by sundown," he promised, meeting the young lord's gaze. "I swear to you, your brother will be with you, safe and sound, soon."
Jonnel exhaled, tension easing from his frame. "Thank you," he said sincerely. "I thought… I thought you might leave after—"
Harald cut him off with a small shake of his head.
"I've decided to see this through," he said simply.
Jonnel nodded, the gratitude in his eyes unmistakable.
Harald then asked, "Where's Leobald?"
"In the courtyard," Jonnel answered. "He's holding a sermon for the servants."
Harald sighed. Of course, he was.
He left Jonnel behind and made his way down through the corridors, stepping into the courtyard moments later.
A large gathering of servants surrounded Leobald, their heads bowed in reverence as the Septon's voice carried over them. Harald didn't need to hear what was being said to know exactly what kind of sermon it was.
The moment he stepped into view, whispers spread through the crowd. And then—one by one—they fell to their knees.
Harald clenched his jaw. Leobald noticed him.
"We need to talk," Harald said, his voice carrying an edge. "Come with me."
Without waiting for a response, Harald turned and walked away. Leobald followed.
They took their horses and rode in silence, the sound of hooves against dirt and stone their only company. The journey was short, leading them away from Greyholt's walls to a secluded riverbank just beyond the hills.
The river flowed gently, its surface catching the soft light of the rising sun. The water shimmered like melted gold, rolling over smooth stones worn down over centuries. Birds called from the trees, their songs blending with the quiet rustling of leaves in the early morning breeze. The air smelled fresh, crisp, untainted by the scent of blood and death that had filled the castle.
It was calm here.
Harald dismounted first, his spectral steed neighing, its illusion of flesh flickering for only a moment before solidifying again. Leobald followed, his steps slowing as he took in the serene beauty of the place.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the whisper of the river as it wound its way through the valley.
Then Harald broke the silence.
"I need your help," he said, his voice steady.
Leobald turned to him, his expression open and earnest. "Anything, my friend."
Harald inhaled deeply, then exhaled, his breath steadying.
"I've decided to see this all through. You get your wish, Leobald—I will free the Riverlands from the Ironborn."
Leobald's eyes widened, his lips parting slightly before he let out a breath of relief. "Thank you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I knew you would. I knew you would." He placed a hand over his heart. "I had faith in you, and it was not misplaced."
Harald looked out at the water, watching the way the ripples moved, as though they too were shifting under the weight of his decision.
Leobald's voice was filled with conviction. "By your guidance, the Riverlands will forever be safe. And they will prosper, under your rule."
Harald let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "Kingship? Let's hope the lords here won't think they are trading one foreign king for another."
Leobald smiled, shaking his head. "They won't. Not when they know the truth about you."
Harald turned to him, raising an eyebrow. "The truth?"
Leobald nodded. "You are the Seven's chosen."
Harald huffed, shaking his head again. "I thought I was the Seven themselves?"
Leobald hesitated, looking mildly embarrassed as he glanced away. "Well…"
Harald smirked. "You need to get your story straight, my friend."
"You need to keep doing what you've been doing," he said, his voice firm. "If not, I'll be perceived as an evil sorcerer. Most of you Westerosi already believe that anyone with magic must be cursed, a warlock, or a demon."
Leobald frowned but nodded in understanding.
Harald continued, his tone turning more serious. "But this also brings other problems. Problems that extend beyond the people here. Religious problems. Do you really think your High Septon will approve of this? Of me?"
Leobald scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Fuck him," he said bluntly, surprising Harald with his unfiltered contempt. "They are all corrupt, bound to the Gardener Kings. They do not care for the Riverlands. We are left to fend for ourselves, forced to live under the rule of the Ironborn. Did they call up the other kings to liberate us? They did nothing as the faithful suffered under the men of the drowned god."
Harald watched as Leobald's anger flared. The Septon's hands clenched into fists at his sides as he continued.
"They have twisted the Seven's will to serve themselves," Leobald went on. "But we—we can change that. We can restore the true path, the path the Faith should have followed all along. We can reform it with you. It's possible…"
Harald narrowed his eyes. "That would be dangerous."
Leobald's gaze met his, filled with unwavering conviction. "For the people of the Riverlands, I am willing to do anything."
Harald studied him for a long moment, then stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder. "My secret will have to stay with you from now on."
"Will need to choose one title though Dragonborn...Champion of the Gods...or even Herald of the Gods"
"We need to plan ahead from now on—no more spouting out things without thinking."
Leobald blinked before letting out a sudden laugh. "Harald the Herald. It rhymes."
Harald rolled his eyes but allowed a small smile. It faded quickly, though, as his mind returned to a far greater concern.
"There may be other threats coming our way," he said, his voice quieter now.
Leobald's laughter died immediately. He stiffened, his brows knitting together. "Like what?"
Harald's jaw tightened. "Let's just say… evil gods from my old world."
Leobald stared at him, his mind racing, but after a moment, his expression hardened with resolve. He took a deep breath, then—without hesitation—dropped to one knee.
"Then let me be the first to hail you King of Rivers and Hills," Leobald declared, his voice strong, unwavering. "As long as you protect the innocent of these lands, I am with you until life leaves my body."
Harald looked down at him, the weight of those words pressing upon him. He placed a hand on Leobald's shoulder and helped him up.
"I accept your fealty, Septon Leobald." He paused, then softened. "Let's conquer us a kingdom"